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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24163222">you say you're a rude boy (show me what you got now)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/foibles_fables/pseuds/foibles_fables'>foibles_fables</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Grey's Anatomy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Companionable Snark, F/M, Fuckbuddies, One Night Stands, Season/Series 06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:02:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,681</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24163222</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/foibles_fables/pseuds/foibles_fables</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cristina locks herself out of her apartment. Mark comes to the rescue(?).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mark Sloan/Cristina Yang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you say you're a rude boy (show me what you got now)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was an unpublished commentfic from LiveJournal that I just found on an old hard drive. I enjoyed it, so here it is. I think this is circa season six?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The fucking doorknob won't budge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tries three times.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's no follow-through to the twist, just a menacing </span>
  <em>
    <span>click click</span>
  </em>
  <span> when it refuses to let her in. Locked. She jiggles it. Nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. She’d simply whip out her keys and </span>
  <em>
    <span>unlock </span>
  </em>
  <span>the door. Except she doesn’t have them with her. Herein lies the dilemma. She left the apartment for two freaking minutes to let the maintenance department know that her cable isn’t working, and the door decided to lock behind her, and she’s been pounding intermittently on the blue door for a good two minutes and Callie and Arizona haven’t answered yet. Probably taking another goddamn shower. Her guts flash with anger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because this, right here? This is just another piece of crap tossed onto the heap that’s been accumulating lately. Owen obviously, and fucking Teddy; downright annoying Sex Kitten Lexie, happy married Meredith; never having any hot water because Callie and Arizona manage to use it all up; and, of course, no wireless to distract her momentarily from any of this. No car keys. Trapped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Upper lip curls into a snarl – fists thwacks that door one last time, and she knows that nobody will hear it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Until there’s a distant </span>
  <em>
    <span>click </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the almost infinitesimal scrape of metal hinges, and she’s almost dumb enough for a second to believe that she had opened her door with the power of concentrated rage alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, knowing better, Cristina looks down the hallway to the source of the noise: a different door opening. Mark Sloan steps out of his apartment and locks the door behind him, leather jacket and jeans, and she knows how great she looks in yesterday’s clothes she plucked from her bedroom floor after work. Whatever. Who cares.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yang,” he says with a nod and smirk as he passes. She’s obligated to respond, of course, because he’s kind of her boss. But it doesn’t have to be enthusiastic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doctor Sloan.” Complete monotone never sounded so good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could have kept walking, but of course he doesn’t. He stops and turns around, grin broadening, needing to get at least one good dig in before he goes alone his merry way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did those two finally kick you out?”</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes, then, turning away from him and crossing her arms. “Or, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t tell me</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he whispers with mock horror, stepping closer to her, “that the great Cristina Yang has locked herself out of her own apartment!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a knee-jerk reaction for her to whirl around and spit, “Hot date with Doctor Altman?” She doesn’t mean for it to come out, it kind of just </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span>, residual anger leaking from all the wrong places. Shit. Career, she tells herself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the way he rolls his eyes tells her exactly how that’s going.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Headed to the bar,” he replies, with a silent but apparent </span>
  <em>
    <span>no </span>
  </em>
  <span>preceding it, like a secret just between the two of them. A pause. “Wanna come?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She almost laughs out loud before it hits her that he’s serious. He raises his eyebrows, vaguely amused, as her face screws up almost comically.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What- </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she blurts, but it could have been more polite, so, again with the begrudging monotone, “no thank you. I have to wait for-” (she looks around before jabbing her thumb backwards almost violently) “-door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mark shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets, looking up at the ceiling. “Suit yourself. Come and drink or stand out here looking lost and wait for them to be done. And trust me, it’ll be a while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t want to know how he knows that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have no money, no-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he’s making this bewildered face, arms open and palms-up, that kills her sentence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is just all kinds of </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, but there’ll be alcohol. Crucial check in the pro column. Alcohol is definitely in the same league as cable and wireless when it comes to distraction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She glances back at that big blue closed door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck it all anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever.” It’s muttered and angry and annoyed and everything else she’s feeling as she falls into stride with him, hating that satisfied smirk plastered to his face, wishing she could reach up and wipe it off.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he drives past Joe’s, she’s confused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A click of her tongue. “You missed the turn.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re not going to Joe’s.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Obviously.” A sigh, exasperated. Politeness isn’t even to be aimed for anymore. Arms fold over her chest. “But why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everyone will be there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there’s a chance he means Lexie and Alex. Or Lexie and Jackson. Or Lexie and that guy from Oncology. Or Lexie and…good </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she rubs her temples, somebody make it stop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So where are we going?” Voice is like acid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Beats me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Great.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a rinky-dink little place, filled with smoke and seedy-looking people and three dartboards. The barstool looks unsanitary. But he sits and waits for her to do so as well. Authority still wins out. She cringes as she rests on the cheap pleather, exposed stuffing rubbing her ass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bartender is a leathery-skinned fright of a woman with the kind of face that makes Cristina want to ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>and which of your convict boyfriends are you looking to bail out of prison with your tip money tonight? </span>
  </em>
  <span>But that would be mean. She holds her tongue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mark orders a beer, she reluctantly orders a shot of tequila. It tastes awful but feels so good going down that she orders another, and then another after that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And it wouldn’t have been half-bad if Mark wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d grin and say something horrible about one of the patrons, pointing out a “good looking dude” for her to take home tonight. “A real winner,” he says, downing the rest of his beer and signaling for another. He opens his mouth and is about to keep talking and she just </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to make him stop. The words prickle up and out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Remember the time you tried to hit on me and it didn’t work?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stops talking for a while.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After another shot or so, though, things change. The alcohol takes effect; stuff melts away from her brain, all of the crap from before, like Owen and fucking Teddy and the locked door and Sex Kitten Lexie and married Meredith and the messed-up cable. It loses its grip on her for a little while, until reality seems like the unpleasant dream she remembers the next morning. And this, the not feeling shitty, is what’s in the real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She kicks his ass in a game of darts and he doesn’t stop hearing about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m drunk,” he claims to defend his pride (“and then what am I?” she counters loudly, waving a dart at him in a broad gesture, tip pointed away from him of course).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And everything’s kind of fuzzy until the shoving and sneering gradually turns into grabbing and kissing as they sit at the bar again, and she would have thought he had learned better by now, and she would have thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>would have learned better by now. But if this is real and everything else is the dream, then what’s to stop this? Who’s going to lumber threateningly into this hole in the wall and tear Mark’s one hand from her hair, stop the other from slowly creeping up to her breast, to scream and get hurt?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The answer, a big fat </span>
  <em>
    <span>nobody</span>
  </em>
  <span>, comes exactly when he reaches second base.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She’ll never know why there’s a random chair in that disgusting little bathroom, but, as she rides him in it, she’s utterly thankful for its existence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re both still in their shirts and his pants are around his ankles; she had draped hers over the sink. Quick and dirty. He grips her hips and drives upward, throwing off her rhythm with an absolutely evil smile. And dammit, she admits (though not out loud) that he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>as good as she’s heard. Somehow, she manages not to think about how she’s playing sloppy seconds to both Lexie Grey and, likely, Fucking Teddy Altman.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stops panting long enough to look up at her and say, eyes half-lidded, crooked smile showing, “You gonna tell Hunt, or should I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s almost enough to make her stop moving, and she wants to slap him as hard as she possibly can, because he just effectively yanked her from the mildly pleasant fog she’s been in for the last however long it’s been, binding her to the reality where this is actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucked up and should be ashamed of herself. “Should be” being the operative term.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, she just tilts her head back and closes her eyes, focusing on the fire building where Mark is buried inside of her, muttering under her breath, “Fuck Owen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The deepening smirk tells her that he heard her. So she says, more clearly, “And fuck you too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The smirk dissolves altogether as she kisses him, close-lipped, and picks up the pace.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, she wakes up the next morning in her own bed, and it takes her throbbing head a good two and a half minutes to realize that Mark had a spare key to her apartment all along. How in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>did she not know about this? She’ll have to destroy Callie later. Girlfriends (or whatever the two of them are) or not, that shit’s gotta go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And for a few seconds, there’s the guilt. But it passes, just like it always has. Maybe someday she’ll feel worse about this kind of thing. But she’s cheated before and maybe she’ll stop when she learns to be relatively happy again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s still wearing her bra and there’s something inside of it, something stabbing her in the boob. She pulls it out, and it’s a piece of paper, last night's bar receipt, folded into a lopsided square. There’s sloppy scrawling print on the back and he was drunk when he wrote it because he missed the </span>
  <em>
    <span>y</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the second </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>hey Yang, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t tell anone I lost at darts</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
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